#and then regretting it. shes a perpetual liar & will lie even when she knows that YOU know that shes lying

[neechees]

Update on the niblings & bad-mom-sister situation again & whinging below

but my sister got her kids (which i was surprised about) on Wednesday but today she called my mom demanding we take the kids again bc shes fighting with baby daddy as usual. My mom asked how HE got them again & my sister didn't give her a real answer lol

My sister is literally so fucking stupid. She'll hand her kids over to her shitty boyfriend & then like 2 days later be angry he has them (& act like he kidnapped them) and then demand WE take them, like YOU GAVE THEM TO HIM WITH YOUR OWN HANDS. She's done this three times in a row now

[dojunie]

MESSENGER; HRJ [PT 4: COFFEE VS TEA]

➥ PART 4 OF MESSENGER; a small smau about a stranger, a whole lot of animal pics, and a relationship you would never have expected to come from texting a random number written on a public bathroom mirror.

➥ WC: 1.7K

[PREVIOUS PART] [INFO/MASTERLIST] [NEXT PART]

a/n: first written bit! lets see if i like this formatting in an hour and if not pretend you dont see me changing shit around 💪

current tl: @matchahyuck @theboyz-jacob @hoeshi17 @neoteez01 @hibernatinghamster @luvvsnae @shwizhies @skynightgalaxy @ihrtnyu @kunvibing @liliansun @txpxwxk @is4b3ll3s @rxnexxi @rum-gone-why @she-is-dreaming

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THE LINE RINGS FOR ABOUT TWO ENTIRE SECONDS BEFORE EVERYTHING GOES VERY, VERY QUIET— And it’s only within that silence that you seem to realize that you might’ve just done something… weird.

Thoughtlessness was what had you pressing that call button (or maybe there was thought behind it; just the type that tired, sleep deprived, stupid people would have). Regret hits you like a brick when all your brain's neurons finally seem to reconnect. What the hell are you doing? You don’t know this guy! You don’t even know his name— not to mention that he doesn’t know yours! And somehow, before common sense caught up to you, you thought it was the logical next step to call him?

You’re stood in front of your desk with your headphones in your ears probably looking crazy as you stare at the screen, thoughts in sudden overdrive trying to figure out how to ‘Oops, butt dial!' your way out this— when it stops ringing.

Now connecting, Duck Boy.

“…Hello?”

Oh.

Your spine stiffens nearly upright at the sound of his voice. His... voice. Him. Duck Boy. Who once only existed in your mind as a selfie and a few bossy-yet-endearing texts, and now you’ve got a selfie, some texts, and a voice. 

Christ, why is your mind spinning like you’ve just unearthed some sort of incredible clue? It’s not like there’s anything stopping you from just asking him to meet up or something since this stupid mystery game is really only being perpetuated by you— but still, you find yourself overanalyzing the single word, the surprisingly low drawl of his tone (his voice is much, much deeper than you thought it would be), even the clarity of his speech and diction.

However. Again—and you can’t even blame the exhaustion for this because you feel wide awake now— you do something weird.

Too busy marveling over how he sounds, you completely forget to respond.

“Mystery girl…?” Duck Boy says again, startling you. “If you’re doing this to keep me awake, I’ve got to say— still kind of falling asleep over here.”

“M’was— Headphones,” you blurt. A lie. Your headphones have been in your ears for about two hours now as you worked on your architecture project, but he did not need to know that. “Was putting in my headphones. Hi.”

“…Hi.”

A shuffling on the line, like he's sitting up or shifting or something, and then he laughs a little bit in the ensuing silence. “You called me and broke your coveted mystique just to tell me hi?”

“No. I’m distracted. I'm... making tea. You don’t appreciate my hello?”

God. Three more lies. At least it’s not for long because this, plus the slight embarrassment washing under your skin, jumpstarts you into turning on your heel and darting into the kitchen. 

“I didn’t say that,” he hums. “You sure like putting words in my mouth. I meant, because you called me all gung-ho like, I was expecting a little more than a greeting. A quiz, or something. A game plan.”

“I have a plan.”

Holy shit, in the span of fifteen seconds you’ve turned into the biggest liar in the world. What plan? You hadn’t even fully recognized you were calling him until he picked up! “It’s twenty questions. The ultimate stay-awake game. I’ll ask such thoughtful questions that your brain will start to steam in that airport.”

This seems to catch him off guard; He snorts a laugh, a loud, pretty sound that you assume is immediately muffled because he’s in public. You’d been in the middle of setting a kettle on the stove when you heard it, and couldn’t help but smile a little widely in triumph. You made him laugh. Cool. 

“Is that so?” he snickers.

Slightly loosened up now, you shrug. “Of course. Let’s open it up with something easy. Coffee— or tea? There is a right answer.”

“How is there a right answer if you’re asking me what I like?”

“Between coffee and tea, of course there’s a right answer. One is good, crafted from nature and angels and all that is pure; a perfectly warm drink that soothes illness and brings joy to those young and old. And the other one is bitter and evil and rhymes with moffy.”

He laughs again. Shit. Should you consider becoming a comedian? Is this weird giddiness how they all feel when they get people to laugh? 

“I’m sure you’ve probably just never had good coffee,” he tries, “It’s not all bitter—“

“Are you putting forth your vote? Coffee? The devil’s choice of beverage?”

“No! You’re annoying. I like both.”

“That’s not the question I asked you, Duck Boy.”

You don’t even realize you’ve called him the name you refer to him as in your head. It slips out easily, a product of ease and amusement and familiarity— which is surprising to say when you’ve only been talking to this guy for a few minutes— but he doesn’t even seem to phase himself, only groaning as you badger him for an answer.

“Is it illegal to like both?” he asks finally, feigning hastiness. “Different occasions. Coffee to wake me up, tea to cool me down. Next question.”

“Don’t get too hasty, because the next question is in the same vein. What do you eat with your tea or coffee? Snack wise?”

“I would say I like bread with both,” he says confidently. “Like croissants? I really like croissants.”

“Something must be wrong with you.”

“What—“ You almost hear how he sits up, immediately affronted. “Hey!”

“Bread? Like just… straight bread? Yeast and egg and flour? With something as bitter as coffee, you’re not even going to have a donut or something? Lord, not even a muffin?”

“I don’t care for sweets! What do you like then, since you’re apparently the chooser of everything good?”

You lean against the counter, absentmindedly watching your kettle as you sigh theatrically, stretching like someone would before they run a marathon or swim a thousand meters. “You’re asking the wrong person this question,” you warn. “I could spend the next hour talking about snack combinations. Chamomile tea and banana nut muffins, a slice of frosted lemon cake with a taaaaall mug of double-steeped Earl Gray. I’m something of a savant in my field, you know. I might have to make you sign an NDA to protect my trade secrets.”

Duck Boy scoffs but you’re pleased to hear what sounds like a hidden smile— maybe even a grin. 

“Consider it signed,” he says. There’s another shift, a sound like fabric rustling, and then he sighs as if he’s just made himself comfortable; which, in an airport terminal seat, must be a fruitless effort. “I have nothing but time, Mystery Girl.”

Your tea was pretty great, all things considered. A London Fog with two teabags instead of one, a capful of vanilla essence to sweeten, milk and sugar— the perfect wind-down drink. It was no wonder then, when you returned to your room and found yourself heading for your bed instead of returning to the desk to continue your insidious diorama floor plan project, that your eyelids started to get a little heavy about fifteen minutes into twirling your finger around the headphone wire while talking with Duck Boy. You have been up for the last day after all, class and practice and studying, and tea at this hour always ends up knocking you on your ass after about half an hour.

The sudden onset tiredness isn’t helped by the fact that talking to him is so easy, either. 

It’s effortless. Who would have thought that the guy who routinely scolds you through text, periods and capitals and perfect grammar everywhere, could actually crack a few good jokes? It’s his dry humor that gets you, a deadpan delivery that had nearly made you spill hot tea on yourself three times; but you made him bark a laugh so loud at one point that he got the evil-eye from an airline attendant, so the scoreboard’s still in your favor.

Whether or not he can hear the sleepy lull in your voice through the phone, you’re not sure. He does seem to take the reins on question-asking though. Little things like your favorite color, musical genre, if you’re a homebody or the type to always be out and about. It’s a lot of good information (more than you ever thought you’d learn about some guy you dialed on a whim three weeks ago) which is why you’re a little salty that you had to go and fall asleep in the middle of all of it.

The last question you remembered had been after a small quiet, a breath of time where your eyes had been closed and he’d been humming, contemplating what to ask next.

Your tea was finished. Your laptop had timed out a long time ago which meant your room was only being lit by the kitchen light outside, a small sliver of warm white light.

“Do you— Do you do any extracurriculars? On campus?”

“Mystery breach,” you’d mumbled belatedly, attempting and failing to blink the bleariness from your eyes. “Look at you, trying to sneak that question in there. You already got to see me first. Now you want to know where to find me on campus, too?”

Immediately he flustered, stumbling for a response like you’d somehow managed to hit the nail on the head, but in your state you didn’t think to look further into it. “I’m kidding. At this point I’d probably give you my SSN if you asked for it. I play volleyball for the school, if that counts? I was on debate club in freshman year but I got kicked out for agreeing with my opponents too much.”

A beat, like he was mulling over this information, and then, “You? Agree with someone? That’s interesting, considering how much it seems you like to argue with me...”

“You’re different,” you yawned. “Very different. Being forced to debate with people I barely know on topics I don’t care about kind of sucks. But I actually like talking to you.”

“Oh,” he said. “…Is that so?”

"Right," you laughed and closed your eyes one last time. “I would never lie to my dickpic buddy.”

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[A LITTLE WHILE LATER]

a/n: pls leave a like if you enjoyed! it motivates me to work on this every time i see a notification about it LOL

[PREVIOUS PART] [INFO/MASTERLIST] [NEXT PART]

[jessidogg]

I'm sorry to say this, but your plead to leave Justin alone just perpetuates white male privilege.

1. He criticized Britney Spears, his ex, for her drinking problems when she was a) being forced to perform to be able to see her children, b) forced to get an IUD, c) being financially abused and defamated by her father and ex, and d) recovering from the mental and emotional trauma of being exploited as a child star. This is one of the main reasons he's being so heavily criticized now. It was not only hypocritical, he ended up doing something worse because Britney never drank and drove

2. OF COURSE the cops say he was perfectly polite. He's a rich white man. He had no reason to fear for his life, the cops probably weren't aggressive towards him at all. He also knew he'd be easily bailed out

3. It is EXTREMELY out of touch to attempt to brush what he did under the rug. My uncle was killed by a drunk driver and it left my aunt and cousins devastated and in a really bad way after his death. Drunk drivers have ruined lives for purely selfish reasons. Just because he voiced your favorite animated troll doesn't diminish that

4. He's a grown ass man. He doesn't need you coming to his aid. People are allowed to be mad at him for his reckless and careless behavior. All your PSA does is try to guilt people to stop criticizing him. That's shitty

Hello! I have read all three of your asks and I totally understand where you're coming from! I'm so sorry that your uncle was killed, that is really depressing and sad and I'm praying for your family still💕

One, I'd like to say that no, JT does not need me to come to his aid. I'm VOLUNTEERING to bc I like him. I don't need his permission to tell people to forgive him, that's stupid. It's totally alright to stand up for people, just bc he is an adult does not mean that I cannot stand up for someone.

Two, you are so right! Driving while drunk is a stupid thing to do, and like I said, I am very frustrated he did such a thing. Justin has done tons of things he regrets from his drinking problems, and I wish he would just stop. But addictions are hard to stop (I totally understand that bc I have been thru multiple myself) but I wish he would just try a bit harder.

But I am not brushing what he did "under the rug". I'm sure that I won't persuade you, and that's fine, but I was only saying that we shouldn't take advantage of this to hate him even more.

I am sick of people going "haha, he's a loser" as if just because he is a celebrity that gives him more reason not to sin. I am saying that him driving drunk is just as bad as anyone else driving drunk, and that being drunk in general is terrible but that also shouldn't be the reason we hate him.

Justin Timberlake would never hurt someone on purpose. We all know that. The fact that he could have hurt someone is terrifying, but it's reality and I realize that. The point is, he made a mistake, and mistake does not mean an "oopsie" in this case, it means a "he knew what he was doing and it was a terrible idea".

In my other post I did not phrase it very well, and I'm sorry about that. What I meant was, Justin did something wrong. I am a strong Christian, and I believe that every sin is just as bad as any other. The difference is, some can cause way worse consequences. Driving while drunk is way more dangerous than maybe lying to your parents. But my God tells me that one is not worse than the other.

Even for those not being a Christian, I think everyone should know that there should not be worse sins, and "okay" ones. Everyone deserves a chance. You should forgive everyone 70 times 7. Then do it all over again.

If a liar told a nasty lie about you and didn't apologize and kept going, but a murderer turned himself in and repented and stopped, would you still say the murderer is the worst person?

The fact that Justin won't try harder annoys me. But we should never put even more hate on him just because he's well-known. He is a human. He is just as bad at stuff as other people are.

Also, Justin Timberlake is a nice guy. The fact that he knew he was going to get released wasn't why he was nice, and being white and rich should have NOTHING to do with what the police say (I find it extremely weird for u to use that description). Justin has been known for being a sweet kind guy and he loves his fans, friends, and family. He has been seen in the middle of a concert stopping everything to make sure a fan who seemed in need of help was alright by ordering security over and asking if they're good. He does tons of stuff around his town just to help out. DudePerfect, one of the most popular trick shot YouTubers, are strong Christians and said that one of their favorite memories was playing golf with Justin Timberlake. There would be no reason for them to lie about that.

Justin should not have criticized Britney Spears about that. That is very confusing why he would, and maybe he was just trying to get her not to go the direction he did a few times, but idk, it is just really stupid. But again, humans in general are stupid. I bet u can name a bazillion times u criticized someone about doing something that you have done or ended up doing yourself.

NOT HIDING IT UNDER THE RUG OR SAYING IT'S RIGHT BECAUSE IT'S NOT, JUST SAYING THAT WE ALL DO THAT KIND OF STUFF

Gosh, I know I'm probably no getting my point across, here lemme try to say this in an easier way. Erm... Justin Timberlake is human. Humans sin. Okay. Sinning is not good at all. We all do it, however, intentionally, from lying to murdering. Big or small consequences can come from any of them. DWI is terrible. I hate when I hear about anyone doing that. You have a right to be angry, I am angry at Justin. But I hate how the already Justin haters are taking advantage of every thing he does and making him seem worse than he is. You can hate him, whatever, but you can't stand beside him everywhere he goes, paper and pen, and mark down his every sin, calling him "even worse than before" with every count. Being drunk is bad!!! Driving while drunk is bad!!! But we should feel sorry for him that he doesn't seem to be able to find an outlet in something else. And we shouldn't hold up his every action, dangerous or not, against him. If we all counted everyone's sins, we would all add up to the same amount of terrible that Justin Timberlake is. We are all dumb humans. We shouldn't hold up everything against each other. We don't know the whole story of anything. All we know is that he was driving drunk. He was probably stressed, trying to have a good time, other stuff. This doesn't make it right. But it should cause us to be more cautious about the situation. Most of the people who bully have things going on at home that is causing them to let out their anger on others. Not saying that's right, but we shouldn't call them "bad people" and basically say "he did this so we're more better than them." That may not be how you think of it, but it's what you're saying.

I really hope I am not making people feel guilty, that is the last thing I want. I just want people to understand my view. If I made anyone feel guilty or it seemed that way, I apologize, that's not how I meant it at all. I just didn't agree with stuff, and I wanted to say what I thought, just how you just sent me what you thought.

Hope I said this right. I may not have because I am bad at explaining things through type. I'm sorry if I offended anyone, I love you all and mean nothing rude. 💕💕❤❤💕💕❤❤💕💕

-Jessi

[angst-and-stupidity]

"Sometimes I think there's not a single thought behind your eyes." "No, there's one." "And what's that?" "PARKOUR!"

I am so sorry this took so long sdkfjalkfj, it was a fun one though!

Tw: Vomit, Intrusive Thoughts

Characters: Emrys (POV), Phoenix

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I think I picked a bad night for a walk. I can't shake the cold off my bones - even with my new thick coat that I can't really make myself comfortable wearing - and the busy streets make me want to constantly check and see if I'm going to be ambushed. I can't help but think about what would happen if I were to be shot with an arrow. No one would know; how long would it be until I was found? Who would learn first, Epiphany or Arlo? Or maybe Nympha? I should've told her I was going out- but would she even let me? What if she thought I was trying to run away? I suppose I could've lied, said I was going somewhere with some purpose, but...no. I can't. The thought of lying makes my head spin.

I should've taken the bus. The bus? Where everyone could see you? Where you risk missing a stop, or getting motion sickness, or crashing because the driver isn’t paying attention?

I guess that’s true.

I make the mistake of walking by a bar, which is very busy tonight. I try to dodge the people drinking in large parties, but one ends up turning around and throwing up on my shoe. My heart skips a beat before I realize that’s the end of it, and I hurry my pace until I can find a quiet alleyway to slide into. I wince when I look down at my shoe and see the vomit, and decide freezing my feet until they turn blue and fall off is better than almost throwing up myself from the scent. I pry my shoes off with my heel, leaving them where they lie and somewhat regretting my decision as chill from the cement penetrates my socks.

I walk on, miserable and full of dread, and start to consider just taking a nap, right here, with my jacket as a blanket.

What would sleeping even accomplish? You're tired, it'll feel warm. But the ground is cold. I can feel it through my socks. And I'm not tired, just anxious. Sleeping will help.

But it’s too cold.

“Hey! Emrys!” The call comes from above me. I look up and see Phoenix, dangling their legs off the side of a nondescript building, waving emphatically. Next to them is a person- oh, it’s probably Penny, their new girlfriend. She looks a little confused, mostly curious; the perpetual state of hanging out with Phoenix. “Whatcha doing?”

“Well- I- uh-”

“Ooh! Come up here! I want you to meet Penny!” They motion to the girl. She waves. I look behind me, wincing at the fact that anyone in the vicinity can hear them, and annoyed at the offer.

“I-I don’t want to climb up there…”

“There’s a ladder.” They point to a rickety, uneven structure made of rusting metal and screws that were peeling out of the building’s brick plaster. I almost throw up.

“Is...did you climb up this?”

“No, dummy, I flew.”

“Great. I feel a lot better.” I start to turn away. They stand up, stretching their wings and giving me an excited grin.

“Alright, c’mon, I’ll fly you up.”

“No!”

“What? I did it with Penny!”

“Can we maybe stop screaming?” Penny pipes up, tugging on Phoenix’s arm to get them to sit down again. Those two really haven’t been dating for long if she thinks Phoenix is capable of *not* screaming.

If you don’t go up there, they won’t be your friend anymore. I don’t want to be their friend. Yes you do, you know you do. You’re a liar. I am not! I’m not climbing up there! You’re a liar and a coward. Shut up, stop it! They’re going to hate you.

“Hey.” Phoenix is in front of me now. I didn’t even notice them fly down. I flinch back. “Are you okay?” I nod. “It’s not very high up, just trust me, okay?”

You’re going to die. I thought you wanted me to go with them. You’ll die. They’ll drop you.

No. They won’t.

I take their hand, and they pull me close. They’re warmer than I expect them to be; I no longer feel like I’m going to get hypothermia, so that’s a plus. I suppose it makes sense, being a fire- wielder and all. I close my eyes as they lift me into the air. Higher. Slower. My fingers grasp against their shirt, trying to get a decent hold on the fabric.

It’s over quicker than I expected it to be. I can feel the cold surge through my socks as Phoenix sets me down, and I open my eyes again. My eyeline meets the top of their forehead, and they let go and step away from me. “There, not so bad, was it?”

I can’t respond.

“Oh yeah! Penny, Emrys-” they motion from her towards me. “Emrys, Penny.”

“Nice to meet you,” Penny says. I look at her, Phoenix, and then down to my socks.

“Penny and I were just talking about our dream pets,” Phoenix grins. “Oh! Emrys loves horses, and Penny, you love zebras, which are just a special kind of horse!”

“Zebras aren’t horses,” Penny corrects. I scrunch my nose at her.

“They aren’t?”

“No!”

“They’re both equines, though,” I whisper, meeting Phoenix’s eyes. “They can interbreed.”

“You’re so smart, he’s brilliant, he knows so much about horses.” he informs Penny. I blush at the compliment.

“Mhm.”

They’re lying, Phoenix is lying. Why would they lie? It doesn’t make sense. You know you’re not smart. Therefore, they’re lying.

…Yeah, I guess you’re right.

“So, what are we going to do now?” Phoenix asks, flapping their wings excitedly. I feel bad that I don’t have an answer.

“Well, since we’re on a date,” Penny starts, wrapping her arm around Phoenix’s and giving me a strange look. “We could grab something to eat?”

“Great idea! Emrys, are you hungry?”

“Ugh, forget it!” Penny lets go and throws Phoenix's arm away in disgust. Phoenix looks taken aback as they watch her descend down the terrifying ladder.

“Are you going to to check restaurant lines?” They call after her. She doesn’t answer, and he looks back at me. “What was that about?”

“I think she’s mad you invited me on your guys’ date.” Oh hey, my voice came back.

“Oh.”

“Are you going to go after her?”

“Nah, if she wants to break up with me, so be it.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t get why she’s mad about it though, you’re fun!”

“Wow.”

“What’s ‘wow’?”

“Sometimes I think there isn’t a single thought behind your eyes.” I can’t help but smirk at that, and they can’t help but mimic it.

“Oh, no, there’s one.”

“One thought?”

“One thought.”

“And what’s that?”

“PARKOUR!” They scream, and before I can even process what’s happening, I see them jump off the roof. My heart skips a beat and vomit catches in my throat.

“Phoenix!” I run up to the edge of the building and peer off the side. I see Phoenix, giddy and giggling, face up in a pile of old clothes that had been set out for garbage by the fashion store next door.

You dumbass, of course they’re okay. I think I had a normal reaction. They can fly, you know they can fly.

You know what? Yeah, they got me. Who cares?

I can’t help but let out a relieved sigh and a chuckle. They look so happy, so carefree. I have half a mind to jump after him, but then I almost throw up.

“I actually didn’t know that pile was there, that could’ve ended really badly,” Phoenix jokes, their voice ringing out. I laugh, my own voice matching their volume.

“And you wonder why I don’t let you fly me around!”

“Until today!” They cheer, raising an invisible glass to me. “Y’know, Penny was right.”

“Oh?”

“We should go eat, I’m starving. Wanna grab something with me?”

“Oh, uh-” No, you need your food at home. You need food now. Right now. You’re going to starve, you’ll never get it again. You can’t wait, you can’t eat out, it’ll take so long. Go home. Eat now.

“Yeah, I’d love to.”

[anathemafiction]

Novel Winds

Commission made by the incredibly kind @areyntheheartseeker

A first date with The Pirate King.

5.2k words

"No, I said wine. I will not be serving my peach piss poor rum," he growls at the sailor, throwing the offending bottle in his general direction. 

His man catches it mid-air, thankfully. The last thing The Pirate needs is alcohol staining the planks of his ship's hull. At his dark glare, the man turns on his heel and scurries away. To fetch wine from the storage at the bottom, if he's sensible. 

To jump off-board if he's not, because then The Pirate will make sure to personally throw him over himself.

"How's the sea bass?" he asks the Quartermaster, glaring at a pair of disgraces setting the towel on the table all wrong. 

Quinn, his Quartermaster, turns careful eyes from the horizon, where the sun shines upon a peaceful sea to the buildings looming far too close to the ship. They're docked in a large Greek city, and even if the view is pleasant, there are far too many stones for the Pirate's taste. Still, a strong breeze picks up, filled with the scent of salt and seaweeds and The Pirate takes a moment to inhale deeply. 

The air swirls freely inside his lungs and he closes his eyes as he slowly exhales. Feeling the tension uncurl. 

He's nervous. He doesn't like it, doesn't like the weight on the pit of his stomach, the agitated clench of his fist. He doesn't like to feel like a bare-faced youth that has yet to taste his first kiss, but as good as a liar The Pirate is, he never did lie to himself. 

So he's nervous. Apprehensive. And it's as maddening as it is frustrating. 

Spirits, get yourself together. What kind of man do you think she wants?

"The cook is preparing it as we speak," Quinn's voice pulls him to the present. The Pirate opens his eyes and nods sharply. 

"Perfect," he says. "Let her know I want it ready-"

"By sundown, Captain, yes," Quinn interrupts, and if The Pirate didn't know better, he'd say there's a hint of a smile on the man's lips. He narrows his dark eyes, but before he can say anything, Quinn continues. "All will be ready, don't worry."

Don't worry. As if he couldn't. His peach had said yes, you'd accepted his invitation for dinner and The Pirate needs to make sure it goes as smoothly as a paper boat in a shallow pond. 

Everything is still so new. So novel between you two. Just recently he was able to find what those lovely lips of yours tasted like. Lips that have haunted his dreams for far longer than he'd like to admit. But he still loses himself in the steely grey of your eyes, always so calm, always hiding what thoughts lie beneath. And if your face is akin to gold, it's as equally hard to read. 

His hand curls tightly as his jaw hardens. Stump finger digging into his palm. No. He has to worry. Has to make sure all goes well. Because once a pirate gets his treasure, he's not in the habit of letting it slip away. 

"Just get it done," he gruffs and stalks forward. A group of his men prepares the setting by the steering wheel, where you should be able to watch the night sky. He faintly hopes the eve will be as clear as the day. Your eyes deserve a feast equal to the one he'll get when he sees you. 

The Pirate allows his steps to ease, swagger in place as he stalks the prowl of his ship, king of his castle. The sun shines high, and even if the ugly city is much too near, the ocean still dominates the view. His lips pull to a cocky smirk. He has this. He has wined and dined with a dozen women before, after all. So far he has heard no complaints. 

But she's not like the others, an annoying voice whispers from the back of his head. And you're an idiot if you think she's simply one of many. 

His smirk slowly dies. Spirits. Here are the nerves again. A hand falls to the pommel of one of his axes, and his scowl turns dark while he searches for his next victim. Better angry than shaking pathetically in his boots. 

How do you have the power to render him so? He'd say you got him on his knees if it didn't make him lose all the remaining respect he has for himself. 

"With a scowl like that, you'll woo her alright!" a laugh from his side has The Pirate turning to see Lia approaching. His second has a wide grin on her tanned face and a mocking glint in her eyes that he would tolerate on no one else.

But because it's her, he smirks back. "I am devastatingly handsome," he says, spreading his arms wide. "No matter what face I pull, my friend."

She cackles, a rough sound, as she comes to stand by his side. Sharp eyes examining the procedures. Finally, her lips twitch. "You ain't sparing any expense," she notes. 

The Pirate's smirk tears his face in half. "For my treasure? Never."

She shakes her head, short hair bouncing with the movement. "Just don't go too far and scare the land dweller away," she sighs, crossing her arms. "I actually like that one. Has a good head on her shoulders."

The Pirate turns serious. "I won't," he says, voice barely audible but strong. Final. Black eyes hold hers, and she stares before nodding. 

The Pirate claps her shoulder, throwing her a wink for good measure. "Watch over them for me, Lia," he says, turning to go. 

From behind, a loud scoff. "When do I not?" Lia shouts, and he smirks all the way to the recess of his cabin. 

The inside is blissfully quiet, shaded and cool. The Pirate sighs, and lets his body unwind for the first time in hours. He brings a hand to his forehead, fingers massaging the temples. 

And wonders where you are. If you are feeling as he is. His lips pull to a small, sincere smile. One he means to save just for you. Nerves or not, one thing is for sure: he cannot wait to see you. 

With the thought in place, he lifts his chin with newfound confidence and crosses the room in long strides to his closet. Opening it wide with a dramatic flair, the Pirate puts his hands on his hips as his black eyes slowly inspect the multitude of clothes he owns. 

Now the most important part. The most pressing question. 

What color of shirt does his peach like best?

- - - 

The harbor's cobblestones had been slightly damp, their perpetual state being so near the sea, but the planks to the docks are almost impossible to walk on. You steady yourself for the third time, heart doing somersaults in your chest, as the heel of your new shoes goes flying ahead. 

You manage to keep balance, face impassive to your struggles, even as you regret wearing them. They had been an impulsive buy, something so rare for you to indulge on, but when the merchant presented their delicate built, you found yourself reaching for your coin purse. 

The same happened with the dress you don. Simple but flowing. Hugging your waist and accentuating the long lines of your legs. It's been so long since you've worn one, you feel odd in it. As if your limbs don't quite fit as they should, and your head is too big for your neck. But you walk with your chin held high and your shoulders proud, and the steel in your eyes catches the last light of a setting sun. Making the grey flash. 

The sun burns a bright orange to your right, coating the harbor in its hues, making the clouds seem like tears in the evening sky. A half-moon strives to take the sun's throne, and beyond, stretching for as long as the naked eye can see, the ocean glints with a thousand lights. 

You take it all in, breathing deeply to steady yourself, but even in your rigid self-control, you couldn't keep your eyes away from the massive ship that looms in the furthermost dock. You don't even attempt to. That's where you're headed, after all. 

Your hand curls as you keep walking, a light fluttering beating against the walls of your stomach. His ship. A small smile tugs on your lips.

Your Pirate. 

The thought makes you blush, but you don't have time to indulge in it because you as round a heavy crate, by the end of a long walkway constantly hit by the water below, there he stands. 

Your steps falter for only a heartbeat. 

The Pirate is turned sideways to you, his tall frame outlined against the bulk of his very ship. Long, silky hair is tied in a low knot and a deep red shirt barely covers the tanned lines of his chest. Familiar black pants and leather boots, but the belt his axes hang from is one you've never seen before. 

Thick and wide, black leather polished. Massive strap made of solid gold.

He looks dashing, even as he scowls heavily at the unfortunate man he speaks to. You cock your head, watching the other cower and you fight to keep the smile off your face as you see The Pirate's glare turn sour. 

Always so quick to temper. 

The heels of your new, pretty shoes click after every step you take, the sound a steady companion that aids you in gathering your courage. You're closer when his voice reaches your ears. "... deal with the Harbormaster," The Pirate is saying, and you recognize the tone instantly. Low and gravely. He's in the middle of an argument. 

The mustached man opens his eyes wide. "Y-yes but due to new circumstances, she was forced to raise-"

"What circumstances?" The Pirate growls. 

You take another step and can see the rings and circlets that adorn his fingers and fill his arms. Almost as much as the scars and cuts that cover the skin. "The guards asked about your ship, Sir," the man squeaks, trying to hide behind a wooden slat. "So the Harbormaster requires extra-"

You take a final step, and two dark eyes, pitch black in the light of a dying day, snap to look at you. 

You stop as The Pirate's mouth hangs open... and then bursts in a wide, brilliant smile. "Peach," he says, the nickname he uses only for you leaving his lips like a sigh. His eyes track you up and down, and you bite the inside of your cheek to keep your gaze steady on him. 

The Pirate turns away from the dock worker without sparing him another glance, eyes entirely on you as he walks closer. His steps bouncy and cocky, his hands falling to his belt. And when he's right in front of you, the smile he gifts you is as sharp and as dangerous as the edge of his axes. 

"I've roamed uncountable seas," he says, reaching a hand for you to take. You hesitate only slightly before slipping your hand in his palm. His fingers close around yours delicately, the rough skin warm and enveloping. "Seen treasures and plunder, sights and spectacles most men can only dream of."

The Pirate bends next in a half bow that takes him to eye level with you. "I have seen so much beauty, Kai," he's whispering now, a low rumble that hangs between the two of you. His eyes hold yours captive, and for a moment, a brief tear in time, the world belongs to just the two of you. "But none compares to the one I witness right before me."

He turns your hand in his and kisses your wrist, right in your pulse point. You feel your heartbeat spike, skin tingling where his lips had touched. "You are a balm for sore eyes and weary souls, Hakuho. Thank you for coming."

He straightens up to his full height, forcing you to tilt your chin back, but keeps close. Your hand is still in his, and the smirk that tears his lips is the cheekiest you've ever seen. 

But his eyes are soft, and the thumb that caresses your skin couldn't be gentler. "If I ever wonder how a peacock would speak," you tell him in a flat tone. "I need only listen to you."

You can't keep from smiling as he gives a sharp laugh.

(…)

Here is a sneak peek!  The full commission is available on Ko-fi for supporters!

The Comission

Thank you so much for making the request, Areyn  ♡♡♡

[recalcitrantlycaffeinated]

So apparently Reddit noticed me

I don’t know how to verify my identity there, so here’s some comments:

I’m not trans, and I don’t look even mildly androgynous.  I look like the American Girl doll Molly and I was dressed that day like I had come from the prairie.  I was also wearing the backpack I’ve had since college.  I’m also four foot nine.

Those of you cheerfully giving advice on how to look 16 instead of 12: I’ve literally aged three years since this post originally went up, but people continued to think I was 12 until I cut all of my hair off.  People have indeed started thinking I am 16 instead.  I regret everything.

I did in fact hit puberty and in fact have all the appropriate proportions for my height, but the height is just...too much for adults to comprehend sometimes, especially when combined with my questionable fashion choices, which are 90% thrift store and 10% Target clearance racks.

I do also have a very young-looking face.  People have been thinking I was a child for quite some time now.  I filled elderly people at a hospital with consternation when I worked there.  People who came to my various McDonald’s would occasionally question whether I was of legal working age.  Then again, they also questioned whether I was Amish or not, so that should tell you part of why these misunderstandings keep happening.

I once dated a guy with a massive beard who looked way older than me.  People used to give us dirty looks in public.  I don’t miss that.

Sometimes I don’t get carded at all, but my best friends also look like high schoolers so when we all go out together we’re usually all assumed to be 19 or 20.  My husband has Perpetual 5 O’Clock Shadow so he ages us out of middle school at least.  One of these friends was with me in the airport that day, so us both being together probably exacerbated the problem.

The person who said people like me are part-hamster: I love you.  This is the most ridiculous explanation I’ve ever heard.

To the person who said I probably looked like Ariana Grande in a sweatshirt and leggings, I love you.  You can stay.  You’re wrong but you can stay.

I have definitely been given a kids menu on a date before.  It’s...not great.

You don’t understand how much I want blue hair.  I have been working at jobs where blue hair was not allowed since I was 16.  I am now 28.  I am contemplating quitting my job in the next few years to Become a Parent and you can bet your butt I’m going to dye my entire hair blue the second that happens.  Snapchat just came out with a colorful hair lens and I send my husband pictures of me with “blue hair” all the time.

I don’t have any genetic form of dwarfism, just super-small parents.

I’m a white person.  Not so white that the sun burns me whenever I see it, but definitely way more Italian/Sicilian blood than anything else in me.  So you can’t blame the TSA agent’s assumption on my race.

...if y’all were trying to imply that I have at any point conjured this young-looking image in order to gain attention from older men who are into children...y’all are gross.  No one who has talked to me for more than fifteen minutes has thought I was a child.

I was not wearing makeup that day at all

I did not make this up.  How dare you.  I was just trying to share a cute story about a lovely TSA lady and y’all are trying to tell me my life is fake.

Pssst I’m not heterosexual but that has nothing to do with what I look like.

To the person who was sad there wasn’t a picture but then said “hmm maybe that would be a bad idea considering this is the internet”; I love you.  I have gotten enough weird sex messages without there being pictures of me online.  I’m tired of blocking people.

Y’all are saying I’m going to enjoy this more when I’m in my 30′s or 50′s or whatever.  You’re wrong.  I’m going to enjoy this most when I get pregnant and I still look like a teenager and I can offend every single person I see who doesn’t know me just by my existence.

I do buy children’s shoes, and also children’s workout gear, but by and large the current children’s fashions are not for me.

I don’t take advantage of children’s prices at museums, etc. but I was once in Europe on a trip with super religious people.  The only time I have EVER seen them lie to get ahead was repeatedly lying about my age to get cheaper tickets.

Okay y’all who are doubling down on me being a liar: I don’t airport much, but I can tell you that the lady was already giving me instructions about what was coming up as she was holding my information but before looking at it, because apparently I looked like a scared rabbit or something.  Then she looked at it and realized her mistake.  Then I unzipped my shoes (...I’m not helping myself here am I) and went through the whole put your stuff in a bin and walk through a metal detector thing.

Any other questions??  Doubts??  Theories??  I’m here to answer things but I just don’t know how to Reddit.

[mohini-musing]

A blindness that touches perfection

Chasing Ghosts universe, set not long after Tasha reentered James’ life

Tasha’s reappearance in his life in a lecture hall brought the two halves of his existence into conflict, a Venn diagram melding slowly together - the before and the after stretching out to meet, converge, and the confluence of those two parts of him would either be his undoing or salvation.

Now here they are three weeks into the semester in his living room, hunched over a cheap coffee table and assembling what he can only think of as atomic model tinker toys in preparation for an exam he’ll be happy to scape a pass out of.

Her hand is trembling as she reaches for the little colored baubles, meticulously constructing a representation of the compounds they have to deal with for this unit. Organic chemistry should have come with a warning about this particular endeavor for those lacking in all original parts, James muses, before he registers that the tremor is making it impossible for her to connect the little sphere to the corresponding cylinder.

“Tash?” he asks, voice low enough to be barely heard. The startle his question evokes scatters plastic atomic model pieces all over the carpet, and she curses before looking up at him.

“Dammit.”

The word is more hiss than anything, and he clenches his fist to keep from reaching out to her.

She presses balled up hands hard against her eyes, chest heaving as a gasping breath whistles through gritted teeth.

He wants to grab her, pull her across the space that divides them and hold her close. He wants to ask her what is going on, but he waits. Tasha hits harder than half the guys he fought alongside in the desert. Provoking her is a bad choice in the best of moments and right now it’s a particularly ill advised one. Long seconds pass before she looks up with red, watery eyes.

Her face contorts in what he supposes she intends to be a smile. It’s all teeth and no joy; lips chapped beneath perfectly applied stain. Deeply wired training makes every tiny detail stand out, each small tell seared into his consciousness and igniting instincts he thought he left behind in a home where every door held secrets and every utterance subtext he didn’t care to read.

“I hope you don’t think you’re getting out of telling me what that’s about,” he tells her dryly. Tasha doesn’t go for coddling. Better to be direct and hope for the closest thing to truth. She’s too good a liar to give him the actual thing, but he stands a decent chance at getting a shade of it.

“Give me my bag.”

He obeys, reaching behind him for her small canvas pack. There’s the rattle of a couple different plastic vials within as she rummages and withdraws a hand clutching a brightly labelled bottle. It promises magical fat burning and appetite suppression.

“Tasha,” he begins, his lips moving before his brain engages. No one on the planet needs to lose weight less than the girl in front of him. She’s always been thin, but this new version of his former baby sister is all sharp angles.

“Shut it,” she interrupts.

Spindly fingers dig a couple beige capsules from the bottle and she knocks them back without so much as a glance at him. Her throat works a couple times to get them down before she shakes her head one quick jerk and drops the bottle back into the depths of her bag.

She doesn’t look up when she speaks.

“It’s not like it’s cocaine.”  

He doesn’t know why he still has her micro-expressions embedded in his brain, but right now it’s immensely helpful. She’s biting at the center of her lips, but the set of her forehead tells him it’s not nervousness. It’s searching for a believable lie.

“And we both know how safe you are with that,” James shoots back when the silence stretches a little too long.

“I’m not a fucking child.” The petulant look she gives him almost makes him regret the words. Almost.

“You never were. What’s up with the not cocaine, then?”

“Hangover,” she mutters.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I have a fucking hangover. I don’t have time for a fucking hangover, so I’m drugging up and moving on. I presume you’re familiar with the concept?”

Now that he looks closely, her eyes are a little bit on the glassy side. He’s wired to think of her as perpetually a little bit buzzed, though, so it hadn’t been noticeable as anything worthy of further study. He doesn’t know where he stands, what the boundaries are right now. Years ago, he knew her as well as he knew himself. Now she’s as good as a stranger, while also being absolutely his baby sister.

“You have a hangover, which means you’re dehydrated, and you’re popping amphetamines?”

“Thanks, Captain Obvious, for that astute contribution,” she snarks back.

He resists the urge to snap at her, to tell her she’s being an idiot. Instead, he heads to the fridge, grabs a bottle of Gatorade, and passes it to her. She takes it without a sound, twisting off the orange lid and downing most of the contents in a few long draughts.

“Why do you have a hangover on a Tuesday night?” he asks her. Even as the words pass his lips, he sees the problem. She’s going to hear accusation, and she’s bound to shut down hard. He hears the word on a ghost of a memory – incoming.

It’s not a projectile heading his way or a kid with a gun bigger than his arms. But it’s no less hard to witness. Tasha’s face transforms into marble, cold, hard, empty.

“I don’t have to answer that.” The words hold no inflection but they are true. She doesn’t. She has no obligation to him or anyone else to explain the hows and whys of what she does to her body. It doesn’t stop him wanting her to offer them, but it does keep his lips closed and the rest of the questions unasked.

Are you drinking every day? How much? Are you sleeping? Well? Food? Are you safe? – All the things he wants to know and can’t badger her with. Pushing too hard is a recipe for being shut out entirely. Failing to push tells her he doesn’t give a fuck. Tasha’s an expert at subtext, skilled enough that she can find it where it doesn’t exist. Every time.

“Point,” he says instead, before kneeling at the floor and gathering the model components and placing them back in front of her. It’s message enough that he’s heard her, that he’s giving her space to say what she’s ready for, and to keep her silence if she isn’t. He’ll keep the electrolyte drinks coming, stick a bottle of Motrin on the counter, and wait until she’s ready to explain. Patience has never been his virtue, but tactical planning – that’s a thing he knows well. Tasha is often best approached as a mission with unclear parameters. He has plenty of experience with those.

They’ve put together a half dozen more compounds when she stands, walking with long strides down the hall and hitting the rug before the toilet with a soft thump of knees on shaggy discount store fluff. He hears her cough a few times before the Gatorade makes its reappearance. Going to her and rubbing her back, holding her curls, offering comfort, all of those options filter through his mind and are discarded. He was on her path from the room. If she wanted him, she would have grabbed his hand and pulled him along. It was always her way as a child and so little else has changed he can’t imagine that has either.

The toilet flushes a third time before stumbling footsteps announce her return. Her face is a sickly grey, a vague flush beneath prominent cheekbones. He pats the space next to him and she drops into it, knees drawn to her chest as she slips sideways against what is now only some of an arm. A moment of alarm as he wonders if she’s going to be upset by the prosthetic. She doesn’t stare at the glove on his hand the way most people do, but that’s a far cry from cuddling metal and silicone.

A tiny sniffle pulls him from his insecurities. Tasha doesn’t do tears. Except she’s going to now. She plops her head onto his shoulder and he reacts on instinct, curling her into his body and wrapping his arms around in the embrace they knew as kids. She’s boneless, her trembling form going where he guides as he holds on for all he’s worth. She’s not crying, exactly. More like leaking saltwater from clenched eyelids while her breath forces warmth through the fabric of his shirt in shallow gasps. Regardless, he begins the litany he learned in another world.

“Just breathe,” he tells her. It’s all the comfort she’s ever allowed. He could tell her she’s not alone, that she’s safe, that he’s got her, but none of those have ever helped. Simple orders, direct but gentle, those are the way to go when Tasha needs whatever it is she needs right now.

“I have a new caseworker,” she whispers when her body has stilled. “She called me darlin.”

They’ve never really discussed specifics of what happened to Tash before she turned up in the group care home. James does know that there are words, phrases, snippets of everyday life that send her hurtling back to places she’ll do terrible things to herself to stop seeing.

“How long?”

“First visit was yesterday morning,” she murmurs. “I started drinking when she left.”

James doesn’t need to ask how much she had. He can’t smell alcohol on her so she must have had little enough to not leach it through her pores. That doesn’t rule out an exceptional amount consumed, but it does mean that it’s not a habit, not in a way that he needs to worry for her safety. He’s no idiot. Tasha needs her vices the way other people need oxygen. For now, he can trust that she’s hungover on a Tuesday evening but that she’s safe enough in her skin.

[ketzwrites]

Rewatch 109: Rise Up

This might be my least favorite episode of the whole show. I make no secrets that my biggest interest in Shadowhunters is the political scenario and the possibilities of it. 

This episode takes the political scenario and cynically destroys all the potential real-world criticism that could be done. Clary gets to play the white savior, the Downworlders are childish and incompetent, Alec is complicit to torture, and - ultimately - the Clave’s twisted distrust of Downworlders is proven right.

I really hate this episode.

Teaser

Alberto is such a good actor. I wonder if this is the first time Raphael is dealing with a fledgling. He seems to know what he’s doing.

Act One

It’s good that Clary intends to tell Simon that it was her decision to bring him back, not Raphael’s.

I don’t get why Alec can’t just Iratze his arm. I also don’t get how Jace didn’t feel it when half of Alec’s bicep was smashed away.

Oh, okay. So, the Forsaken was after the MC. Not exactly the best plan to send the Ogre-like creature for a heist, but it’s not like Valentine is supposed to be a mastermind- No, wait. He is.

Look, it’s great that Clary was able to fight one Shax demon. Really, kudos for her. But when every single person in the Shadow World is looking for her, she is not right to want to stay on the streets and look for Simon. I swear, I don’t get this logic.

I enjoy how we are always reminded that Magnus is performing magic for payment. It’s part of his autonomy as a warlock (in fact, as the High Warlock since Magnus doesn’t take other clients besides the Institute).

Izzy has zero qualms in hugging Meliorn in the middle of the Institute. Noted.

Again, it makes no sense whatsoever to think the seelies would be working with Valentine. This “seelie always take the winning side” doesn’t work when Valentine’s side means, at best, their permanent banishment to the seelie realms, and at worst, their annihilation. That’s why Shadowhunters never showed the conversation between the Seelie Queen and Valentine in 219. There is nothing that Valentine can offer the seelies that truly interest them.

Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Maryse and Robert made a deal with the Clave prior to the Uprising? The event that Maryse helped organize? Honestly, the history of the Shadow World is so poorly crafted. The Clave knew the Uprising was coming but still failed to prevent it. Oh, but one shadowhunter and a recently turned werewolf were able to stop Valentine. I’m not buying it.

Both Alec and Jace have good points about Maryse and Robert. They are hypocrites and Alec is right to refuse to do their redemption for them, especially since neither Maryse nor Robert shows any regret for their past actions. But Jace is right to doubt they are working with Valentine again.

Can you imagine if Clary had told Elaine that Simon died in an accident and then Simon showed up at home like that?

Act Two

Clary is smart again and looks for Simon at his own house. Though, the lighting of this scene is so weird. In Simon’s bedroom is night time, but the corridor looks like it’s illuminated by the sun. It’s really weird.

Shots fired. Spill the tea, Alec.

I’m glad we get Simon telling Clary off for turning him into a vampire. She did it for love and it wasn’t her fault that Camille is a murderous monster. But actions have consequences nonetheless.

Lydia is terrible at interrogations and Meliorn is great at shifting the focus. He was called in to talk about the seelie blood in the Forsakens and, instead, he got the shadowhunters investigating each other. Lydia walked out with no confessions, no leads, and inner division.

Act Three

Oh, look. Raj!

Anyway, here is where Jace puts Clary’s need above Alec’s needs. He isn’t just prioritizing Clary’s quest to get her mother back over the safety of the Shadow World – which is bad enough for other reasons. He is purposefully deceiving Alec in the name of Clary’s interests. This is a betrayal of trust.

The dispute between Luke and Raphael is a classic vampire vs werewolf dispute. Fair enough. But it’s a writing decision to keep that animosity in a context where both races are oppressed by a third race. A writing decision that will annoy me in a couple acts.

Izzy and Jace are correct: torturing Meliorn will lead nowhere. That decision, though, follows the modus operandi of the Clave: Lydia failed to properly interrogate Meliorn but the blame for her lack of success in getting information from him is blamed on Meliorn’s supposedly ability to skirt the truth.

That said, there is no logic casualty between the Clave getting the MC back and the Clave doing bad things to Downworlders. In fact, I’m surprised Izzy doesn’t urge them to give up the MC as a way to prove Meliorn is cooperating and, thus, spare him from torture.

“If the Clave is willing to do this to Meliorn, what do you think will happen when they get the Cup?” Logically, they’d stop. Like they will stop in a few episodes when Imogen gets the Cup and stops Izzy’s trial.

Not that keeping people in cells is a particularly nice move, but I'm surprised Raphael is the first to do it to Clary. Lucky her the person in charge of the Institute when the story started was Alec: had it been Lydia or Aldertree or basically any other shadowhunter, she would’ve been put in a cell in the first episode.

Act Four

Fun fact: Simon almost becomes a Daylighter this episode as he struggles not to feed on Clary.

The stele stealing scene is actually very entertaining to watch even if it’s about the two people Alec should trust the most betraying him.

This conversation between Alec and Magnus breaks my heart. Rewatching the whole season, I don’t have a problem with how Magnus reacts to Alec’s marriage announcement anymore. It’s a matter of miscommunication: Alec came to the conversation looking for a confidante, Magnus came to the conversation looking for a hookup. When Magnus realizes Alec is set on following shadowhunters costume in detriment of his own happiness, Magnus gets angry but ultimately minds his own business. It works for me.

Hodge’s character is all over the place. He is the opposite in this scene as he was with Alec in 103. It’s essentially the same thing: Hodge catches the Lightwoods preparing for an unauthorized mission. But, with Alec, he was ready to let him go without further comments until Clary was mentioned. Then Hodge got angry because she is Valentine’s daughter. Now, Hodge gets angry because Jace and Izzy were about to lie to him but lets them go if that means saving Clary. The only intention I can see behind this is that Hodge is supposed to be seen as a sketchy character.

“Do you think I’d be sending Meliorn to the Silent Brothers if I thought there was another way?” Yes, I do. Because you suck at interrogations and clearly doesn’t care about Downworlders. I’m glad Alec doesn’t answer, forcing Lydia to further explain herself. Also, it seems this isn’t Clave’s orders after all, but a decision that came from Lydia herself.

Lydia’s sob story perpetuates the shadowhunter biased notion that all Downworlders are the same. One warlock in Rio betrayed her – after being threatened with torture -, so all downworlders are liars and should not be trusted. The fact that Alec doesn’t realize that is a huge problem but at least the ominous music is proof of that the writers know that.

Simon forgives Clary because he sees her need for his support as an opportunity for them to get together romantically. Understandable reaction, though I wish it was revisited when they do get together and then break up.

Up until Clary meets with Raphael – a public meeting, for some very idiotic reason on Raphael’s part – I’m on board on Izzy, Jace, and Clary trying to protect the Downworlders side by side with Luke and Simon.

But then her first words are “we’re offering an alliance with the seelies”. No, you’re not. You have no authority to do so. Also, Luke still holding a grudge against the vampires at a time like this is childish and uncharacteristic of him.

“We are a new generation of shadowhunters. We believe everyone to be equal” said by one of the people who attacked a whole clan for the actions of a couple vampires with no way of knowing it had been the leader’s orders to kidnap Simon. The person that, up until a few minutes ago, had to be told by a fledgling that this world sees them as different. The person that, during that same conversation, presumes to speak for Simon and is against him joining the vampires, who clearly know how to take better care of him that she does.

Maybe it’s a good thing that this show doesn’t delve into politics. If this is the best they can do, I don’t want it.

Act Five

More childish animosity between werewolves and vampires to prove that, without Clary, they would be incapable of working together.

Clary doesn’t know how the portal shard works. She’s only ever activated it by mistake. Do the writers think the audience is stupid?

And, in the same episode that Clary is being glorified as the conciliator of the Shadow World, she is ready to “call the whole thing off” because it might inconvenience Jace to fight his Parabatai. Oh, I’m sorry saving Meliorn might personally affect your boyfriend, Clary. You’re right. Forget about it. It’s just a Downworlder life you believe to be saving. Jace’s feelings are more important. Fuck this episode and whoever came up with it.

No women among the shadowhunters with Alec, hm?

It’s a smart writing choice to have Izzy use the whip against Raj. It seems an insignificant thing in this episode, but it entails bitter consequences for the next one.  

As wrong as Alec is for going through with this plan, I’m happy he gets to punch Jace on the face for making Alec’s choices all about him. And for winning the fight and refusing to work outside the system again just because Jace asked him to.

Act Six

I’m really not interested in watching Jace being jealous of Clary and Simon’s friendship.

I ship Meliorn and Izzy so much.

Did Izzy also tell you Clary offered to call off your rescue if Jace felt uncomfortable in fighting Alec, Meliorn? Or are we ignoring that to sing her praises she does not deserve?

I guess the worst part of this entire episode is that, in the end, Lydia was right. Meliorn was being uncooperative. He knows a way to find Valentine and chose not to disclose it. That also shows that the seelies are rather incompetent: they can get to Valentine and kill him but choose not to.

[alittletoosour]

i feel like the only HECKING zuko stan in the whole entire world that NOTPs zutara like wtf do other people not see that zutara is unhealthy for fucking both of them??

Please feel free to skip over this if you like Zutara. This is only my opinion. I do no intend to perpetuate any ship hate or stir up any ship war.

I wouldn’t consider you a Zuko stan from what you’re telling me. A stan is “an overzealous or obsessive fan”, to the point of being unreasonable. I guess different people have different definitions for stan, but if you can NOTP Zutara then I don’t see you as a stan. I just see you as an enthusiastic fan - so in that case, that’s great! I’m always happy for people that find joy in something - including Zutara fans, yes. Again, I only ever have a problem with stans.

Hm … now, I’m always careful to say things about Zutara itself. Zutara has never appealed to me, but it’s really the fandom that has made me NOTP it so hard. That doesn’t mean I don’t have any problems with their dynamic though. If you don’t mind, I’m just going to air my thoughts here, unfiltered, with no fancy formatting or images to accompany the text. 

A lot of people will use The Southern Raiders as example of why Zutara works so well - they think Zuko’s actions demonstrates how he can give Katara the emotional support that Aang (apparently) never could. He [selflessly] takes Katara on this journey she so desperately needs, all because he cares so deeply for her. I wholeheartedly disagree.

I don’t doubt Zuko cared about Katara. I’d be a big liar if I tried to say he didn’t. But, it’s an even bigger lie to say he didn’t have any alterior motive in taking Katara to find her mother’s killer. 

Zuko approached Katara in the first place because he was sick and tired of her belittling him. “What’s with her?” Sokka asks. “I wish I knew.” Zuko replies, before following her. When he meets her at a cliff, he demands to know what’s wrong with her. “This isn’t fair! Everyone else seems to trust me now!” He expects her forgiveness, especially because everyone else has already accepted him, even though he’s never personally apologized to her, or done anything to warrant true forgiveness from Katara. He only offers to try and “make it up to [her]” after she lashes out at him. 

When he confronts Sokka, again, he acts like Katara’s resentment towards him is unwarranted - “She hates me! And I don’t know why, but I do care what she thinks of me.” (Wow, caring what others think about you, only a thing you do with people you’re romantically interested in.) Again, even though she had just explained clearly to Zuko why she had a problem with him, he just can’t get his head around why Katara doesn’t like him. He feels entitled to Katara’s respect, when she doesn’t owe him anything. They might be allies, but she doesn’t have to be nice to him, especially with all the stuff he’s done in the past.

Katara needed to go on her trip. Zuko acknowledged it, and so did Aang. It was about closure.

But it was also about revenge. Katara admitted it, “Fine, maybe it is! Maybe that’s what I need! Maybe that’s what he deserves!” 

Katara was the one to keep strong in the wake of her mother’s death. She uptook the maternal role of the family, and made sure everyone was taken care of. In that time, she bottled up every bad feeling she experienced and let it fester inside of her. Suddenly, with the oppurtunity to find her mother’s killer on the table, everything she had been pushing down burst out and viciously consumed her until all she could feel was rage. 

Katara shouldn’t be faulted for feeling this way. We all think of things we could never imagine, or do things we could never go through with when emotionally unstable. However, Zuko’s lack of concern over Katara’s irrational state shouldn’t be excused. Sometimes you need someone to sit you down, to talk with you, and to tell you that you’ll only hurt yourself in the end. 

When Aang actually does this with Katara, Zuko immediately dismisses him - “That’s cute, but this isn’t air temple preschool.” And when Sokka agrees with Katara, Katara accuses Sokka of not loving their mother the way she did. 

Zuko and Katara are both emotionally fueled characters. They enable each other to do things they’ll deeply regret. If it weren’t for Katara herself, Zuko would have allowed her to kill Yon Rha, thus allowing her to suffer the emotional reprucussions afterwards. It isn’t easy to kill someone. No matter how cold someone may seem, we all have a sense of humanity in us. Now, whether you think Katara couldn’t kill Yon Rha was out of her own willpower or not, that’s debatable, but her decision only makes her more realistic. 

My point is, Zuko and Katara only feed into eachothers unhealthy behaviors. As much as we love “flawed” characters, we have to be careful with how far we take it, before we lose all sense of who they are at their core. I can only see similar conflict arising if they were to pursue a romantic, intimate relationship. 

I didn’t write this to put down Zuko in any way. I like him as a character. I even like Zuko and Katara’s dynamic, if left friendly. However, that doesn’t mean I have to enjoy when he’s enabling someone to do something they’ll regret.

[duaneodavila]

If #MeToo Goes Gray

When it broke onto the scene, and all over Harvey Weinstein, I didn’t think it had legs to keep going. Eric Turkewitz told me I was wrong when I dismissed the momentum of the #MeToo movement. Turk was right.

In my naïveté, I thought people would be smart enough, mature enough, to recognize that every slight from their past could not be vindicated by mob-shaming. They would grasp that there would be serious cries, and cries so silly and trivial that no one could possibly not laugh.

They would realize that no matter where along the spectrum the tears fell, they could not reinvent history with some hysterical adjectives and lash out. What happened during the Sexual Revolution, that came to a crashing end when AIDS struck the world, obviously couldn’t be judged by today’s puritanical standards. Not even the most passionate kid today could fail to grasp the difference, the shift in norms and goals. No one could be that stupid.

And then there would be liars and crazies taking the moment to exact vengeance or just bask in the glory of victimhood. Men lie. Women lie. People lie. That’s why we require facts before concluding an offense was committed.

I was wrong. Boy, was I wrong.

When they failed to gain traction by lawfare, because it required facts rather than tears, the feminists behind the #MeToo movement shifted their tactics to social media, where there were no rules of evidence, no burdens of proof, and people who preferred to gush rather than prove. It worked. With only the incentive of “likes” and tummy rubs, they told their tales and proved them by excuses. The weak rallied around each other with the promise of hegemony in sight. If they stuck together no matter what, they could beat other women’s boys and delight as if it was that guy who hurt their feelings.

Enter the next phase of the inquisition.

As we near the one-year mark of the public accusations against Harvey Weinstein—that he serially assaulted women; that he used his power to avoid any consequences for doing so—and the subsequent spread of the nationwide #MeToo movement, we are also facing its backlash. The initial ramifications were widespread and stunning: For the first time in history, it became, ostensibly, the mainstream inclination to believe the victims’ stories about sexual assault and harassment.

The next part of the scheme is expand beyond putative offenses, rape or sexual assault as it’s been redefined by removing all semblance of meaning, into the “gray areas” of admittedly lawful conduct by men that nonetheless isn’t the way some women want men to behave.

Yet #MeToo’s next direction is toward a deeper look at some of the most common and harder-to-define experiences. It’s looking toward a more equitable world in which women and other marginalized genders can live less fearfully, by digging deeper into the gray areas and educating all of us about the harm they perpetuate.

What are they talking about? Definitions are for kids, and undermine the core purpose of this scheme. After all, without definitions, wrong is whatever they say is wrong. Wrongs are defined only by claims of pain and fear. Throw in a few adjectives and a bad date becomes trauma for life.

The gray area is really important to talk about because so many of us live in the gray area. People talk a lot about how men are confused about consent and they don’t know if they should touch this or touch that, or ask.

But I also think there are issues around consent for women as well because we’ve been socialized to believe that we have to give in to the whims of men. That you have to well, OK, he asked three times, he asked four times, I gave in on the fifth time. And I’m not saying that giving in is automatically sexual assault, but it definitely is a gray area.

If this strikes you as utterly worthless rhetoric, that’s because you don’t get it. Only by Jezebel logic can women simultaneously be strong, be fierce, yet be so weak that they can’t withstand the emotional coercion of a guy asking for sex. Have they been “socialized”? Even so, are they not capable of overcoming this facile excuse? If you don’t want sex, don’t say yes. But these strong women apparently can’t manage that. Strong isn’t what it used to be.

It was bad enough when the slide from scrutinized claims of rape, proven by competent evidence with the accused being given the opportunity to confront his accuser, challenge the claims, was lost to the mob of sad tears. But at least the allegations were, for the most part (see Aziz Ansari), about conduct that rose to a level of relative impropriety. Yeah, this is a gross overstatement, as enthusiastic consent at the time morphed into regret the next day, but that’s another flagrant fault with the narrative. Now, it’s down to “he negged me, so I was raped by feeling that I had to have sex with him or I feared he would break up with me.”

What did he do? No one is likely to know, as there’s no expectation for facts when stories need only be wrapped in the women’s emotional adjectives. And that will be good enough for the mob to crush.

Nina is blonde, thin, and stands a little over 5’3”. She told Jezebel that she first matched with Smith on Tinder. She said that their first two dates seemed normal, if intense. “Both times, we did have a connection,” she said, and on their second date, on May 19, they had consensual sex. For a few days after, they didn’t see each other because of conflicting schedules; after Smith was unresponsive to several text messages, Nina said she attempted to end their brief relationship, saying it was clear it was going nowhere. Smith texted later, writing, “I’m surprised you couldn’t sense my interest in you; you’re very sensitive to praise (not a criticism).” Nina responded, “ahh, i’m sorry, maybe a lot of this was in my head!! we texted a lot over the weekend and then the quick fall-off/non-replies to the two times i asked you if you were still into it got me thrown off.” She would later characterize this as Smith’s first attempt to gaslight her, by ignoring her and then making her feel that she had interpreted his lack of response incorrectly.

Jezebel even throws in a screen cap of the text messages, lest anyone doubt “Nina’s” cries of “gaslighting” and hesitate’s to destroy the shitlord. Ironically, the shitlord in this case is a public uber-ally to the cause.

Jack Smith IV has made a name for himself over the last year and a half as a senior writer and correspondent covering the extremist right for Mic, a website known for its progressive takes on social justice. His 2017 arrest while covering the Standing Rock protests was a key moment that raised his profile, and he has capitalized on it, writing about incels, MRAs, and neo-Nazis; helming videos about racism and xenophobia; tweeting to his nearly 45,000 followers about the next white supremacist rally in Charlottesville and Milo Yiannopolous; and publicly speaking about, and positioning himself as an authority on, issues of misogyny.

This might seem too absurd to be taken seriously, but then, that was my expectation of the ridiculously irresponsible #MeToo mob. And I was wrong. Boy, was I wrong.

If #MeToo Goes Gray republished via Simple Justice